


Shade of the Past

by pilindiel



Series: Dies Irae [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood, Bodyguard Marco, Curses, Ghosts, Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Hatred, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Werewolf Marco Bott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 10:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up – the inside is just as shitty as the outside and as Marco sweeps his flashlight over the interior, my nose scrunches.It smells musty and old as balls, like something curled up, died, and then disintegrated to a stain on the hardwood floor. The ground groans as we step and I swear I can hear field mice scurry under our feet beneath the boards.  The wallpaper is old and peeling, but the design on them is intricate, delicate even. Like it must have cost a fortune when it first got put up.My prompt was: Photographer!Jean and werewolf!Marco are young adults.  Jean is and Marco joins him.  Literally, the AU I already have in development.





	Shade of the Past

Karanes is cold this time of year – the rush of the wind is harsher, bitter – and I wrap my arms around myself as we exit the car, brandishing my Letterman jacket against the evening wind. Marco, the fucking furnace, seems completely unfazed by the gusts but neither one of us can stop the fall of our expressions when we come upon the house.

I'm sure it must have been beautiful. You know; _**thirty years ago**_.

A pitched gray roof hangs over a shingled off-white exterior, and the shutters hang desperately off the edges of boarded up windows. The dormers of the second floor are the only ones still in tact, but the glass is cracked, splintered and spider-webbed like someone threw rocks at it from below. Ivy climbs up the outside walls, trying to drag the house back into the forest beyond its borders, and even with the moon out, bathing everything in a calm light, the house is gloomy, like it permeates darkness.

A black and red sign loudly proclaiming “No Trespassing” is nailed to the front door just below the brass knocker, and Marco gives me a dubious look before slipping his access key into the lock. The deadbolt creaks as it slips out of its slot, agonizing in the way the metal scraps against the wood, and with a mighty heave Marco shoves the door open.

I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up – the inside is just as shitty as the outside and as Marco sweeps his flashlight over the interior, my nose scrunches.

It smells _**musty**_ and old as balls, like something curled up, died, and then disintegrated to a stain on the hardwood floor. The ground groans as we step and I swear I can hear field mice scurry under our feet beneath the boards.  The wallpaper is old and peeling, but the design on them is intricate, _**delicate**_ even. Like it must have cost a fortune when it first got put up.

“Remnants of a bygone era,” I snort, and Marco hums in agreement, shutting the door behind us and bathing us in the dark.

Survey can't afford to keep these safe houses “safe”, I guess. It makes me realize just how fucked we really are, how desperate Survey is to get funding again. They can keep these safe houses, but they sure as hell can't maintain them.

To be fair, there's nothing that says we _**have**_ to stay in a safe house – Marco and I both know basic symbols we can place on the doors and windows of any motel we stay in – but that's just the problem. They're _**basic,**_ and lucky for me none of the things after my ass are basic ghosts or monsters.

There's something heavy about the air in here and even with my phone flashlight and Marco's torch, the inky black of the house feels oppressive. Graffiti is sprayed all over the walls, no doubt from kids from town who wandered out here for the thrill of defacing an empty house, and as we move into the pitch black living room, I'm surprised we find any furniture at all.

Marco brightens, just a little, and wanders over to what I assume was once a couch. It's huge and curved, and the upholstery is red with what look like faded gold embellishments, though that could be just the dust settled on it fiddling with the light of my phone.

The musty stench is unbearable in here, and I rub at my nose with my sleeve. I can't imagine how hard it must be for Marco and his crazy werewolf senses – I feel like I'm about to _**gag**_.

“Isn't this nice, Jean?” Marco says over his shoulder at me. His voice is strained, but he's giving me a smile so sweet it pulls at my heart and I shove my free hand into my pocket in defiance. “Now we don't have to sleep on the floor.”

Damn him for trying to make the best out of a shitty situation. Damn him and his smile and the way his broad chest looks in that flannel. Damn him and his stupid hair and his stupid dimples and the stupid things it does to my heart.

Still, I meet him at the edge of the light and bump him with my shoulder.

“Looks ancient,” I grouse, dropping the duffle bag at our feet. Marco smiles at me and shrugs – a small, helpless gesture – and I kneel down to pull my camera out.

It was a gift from Dad for my last birthday, arriving the day before Marco trampled into my life brandishing a flamethrower, but I'm no stranger to photography. The first camera I got was when I was eleven and Dad was so happy, so relieved I had found something to occupy my time, a _**hobby**_. He and Mom don't know _**why**_ I wanted one, and they don't need to. They don't need to know I don't think I'll live long enough to leave a legacy behind.

That there won't be any evidence of my existence outside of these pictures and broken memories.

I can feel Marco's eyes on me, the way he's acutely becoming aware of how solemn I get when I take pictures of our surroundings, but so far he hasn't brought it up so I don't either. I just take the strap of my camera, mindful of the lens, and drape it over my neck, letting the metal and plastic rest over my heart like a medal.

The eeriness of the house is nothing new to me, but there's a charm to this skeleton that makes my fingers twitch. I need to have evidence of it existing, at least so someone out there knows there's still some beauty in these tattered old walls.

The spark of creativity is familiar, but the feeling never gets old. The strap is nestled around my neck, a sure grasp that binds me to my passion, but that connection breaks just as I'm reaching for it.

The way Marco's head swivels towards me is alarming, and I can see the way his nostrils flair, his dark eyes darting to the windows and corners of the room. There's something here.

Most safe houses have a enchantment etched on the door, keeping the interior of the house secured, but god knows the wear and tear must have scratched away at whatever old spells used to linger in the air.

A cold feeling coils up my leg around my jeans, something thin like paper but sharp as knives, and it chills my senses and renders me motionless. Though, maybe it just feels that way because I'm not as quick as Marco.

I can't keep up, my ears catching the bang of Marco's Smith and Wesson as he fires at the creature working its way up my body. My freedom is granted and I pivot, but my relief is short-lived. The shadow recoils with an angry hiss and it's like it descends on us from the perimeter of Marco's light, growing larger and looming its darkness over us.

I've been in enough danger to know when something is after me, and that ever familiar coldness pricks at the back of my neck.

I don't have a lot of time to linger on my fear though as the monster lunges towards Marco and the small beam of light beckoning it closer.  
On instinct I leap to Marco, but I'm a split second too late. His gun is steady in his right hand, but the other is weak and limp in comparison, and the flashlight flies through the air, clattering onto the floor and lighting up each corner of the room as it spins on the hardwood.

Marco isn't phased. His gun barrel gleams in the strobing light, aimed towards the shadow as it lunges at him.

My mind is racing, trying to sift through my knowledge of myths and legends and ghosts at rapid speed to make sure we don't get fucking butchered by something we can't fucking _**see**_.

And that's when it clicks.

“Marco,” I shout, “The flashlight!”

His eyes fly to it, (amber irises, I note with a clench to my heart), but he leaps away from the jab just in time, rolling closer to the light and flicking it off with a sharp _**snap**_.

Silence follows – a heavy, thick silence – and I swallow as my sight ineffectively tries to adjust to the unnatural gloom.

“Marco,” I call, cautiously stepping even though I know it won't do us any good, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” a voice says, distantly to my right, “Clue me in on what we're fighting here.”

“A wraith.” I chew the inside of my lip, pulling at the skin. “I think.”

I hear Marco slowly take a breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, but I can hear the calculation in his measured words, “Intelligence?”

“Not much,” I reply, shifting the knife from one hand to the other nervously, “But it only fights in the light. Uses the shadows to move and attack.”

I wait. Another breath. My chest tightens.

“Okay,” Marco says again, “And I'm guessing we can only kill it in the light, right?”

I nod, but then realize how stupid that is. “Yeah.”

Something thumps at my side, hand wrapping around my bicep, but my gasp dies when I feel Marco's warm fingers squeeze my arm reassuringly.

“So, what's the plan?” he whispers.

I've stopped questioning how he can find me in the most unlikely circumstances – he could probably smell me a mile away, or maybe he just hears the pounding of my heart in how deathly quiet it is. God knows _**I**_ do. I can barely see the outline of his face in this oppressive darkness, but I try to force my gaze to where I think his eyes are and level with him.

“Well,” I begin, swallowing, “We both have lights, right?” I poke my camera against where I think his arm is and when I'm met with his squishy chest I can't stop my smirk. “Let's light 'im up.”

I know he disapproves but he's also impressed, and I can hear it in his chuckle. His laughter caresses my cheeks before he slips away to the other side of the room, giving my bicep one more squeeze before he leaves my side. I try no to linger on the loss of his warmth, try not to think about the heat that is burning up my neck, and square my shoulders.

One hand tight around my knife. The other on the camera, finger on the shutter. Feet apart. Knees bent.

_**Breathe**_.

“Now!” I shout.

The room is illuminated – my camera flash and Marco's light are blinding – and the first thing my vision catches is the whisper of a black cloak, disappearing to my right.

Marco jumps and dives, shooting into the dark and brandishing his torch like a weapon, swinging and firing it in the direction he thinks the wraith is heading.

My camera is unsteady and cumbersome – I can barely get the shutter off in time with how heavy it is in my non-dominant hand and I'm bobbing and weaving more than fighting. I'm not as fast as Marco and it shows; I may have been running my whole life, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I can outmaneuver something I can't _**see**_.

Thankfully, Marco's drawn its attention so far but that doesn't put me at ease.

Marco's not the target here.

I manage to get another camera flash off as I take a hard right to the other side of the small room, skidding on the rotting floor, and that's when I hear the whispering. It's like a hiss in my ear; this nasty, sickly voice and it repeats the same thing over and over, clawing at my insides and sticking in my gut.

“ _Let me have_ ,” It wheezes, “ _I want, I want_ , _**I want**_.”

It brushes the back of my neck, fingers long and thin and bony, and I whip around too fast. I'm frantic, movements slow and stupid and the camera shutter is loud in my ears as it clicks.

Marco skids in front of me before I can catch up. The wraith's limb – frighteningly quick and sharp as needles – slams him hard in the shoulder.

My voice cracks on his name.

Marco goes flying.

My mind is a blur. My breath is in my chest. Distantly, I hear his body smack against something, hear him thud onto something soft – the couch? I can't see, everything is fucking _**black**_ – and then silence.

His flashlight cracks against the floor and flickers once before going out.

My mind is blank. I'm bathed again in this darkness, this black that sinks into my gut and sucks out the air of my lungs and I can't stop how my mind flies to Dad, to the empty socket where his eye used to be and the blood gushing down his face and I can almost see it, can see it swirling to focus in the ink and the guilt coils around my throat and I –

And I hear Marco groan through my haze. Hear him curse under his breath and shift against the cushions.

The rush of air in my lungs is dizzying. I would take the time to relish in his safety, but...

I wet my lips quickly and rip the strap off my neck. The floorboards creak as I crouch and I pause, waiting between heartbeats.

There's something that happens when your body goes through so much trauma and stress where you become stupidly lucid, and thankfully I'm one of those lucky sons-of-bitches that it happens to when it counts.

Or maybe it's the practice; I'm well versed in trauma and stress.

Hastily, I shift my weight and aim the camera between my knees, pointed up at an angle.

I snap the shutter and simultaneously thrust my knife in front of me, sinking deep into the shadows. A pair of orange eyes meet mine, shining and empty like the smiles of jack-o-lanterns, and the wraith _**screams**_.

I use my position to duck and roll out of the way just as it stabs the empty air, keeping my camera under me. I clamber to my knees as soon as I skid to a stop, knife heavy in my hands as the wraith writhes and hisses and shrieks.

There's a gasp, a sound like air being sucked into a vacuum, then nothing.

The heavy atmosphere lifts and it's like a breeze blows through; cooling my heated, sweating skin and taking the musty smell along with it. It's easier to breathe and though I hate the cliché, the air feels _**lighter**_. Comforting.

Moonlight spills through the cracks in the wooden slates that cover the windows and it bathes the living room in a tranquil blue, but my eyes fly to the couch and to the young man sitting on that ugly-ass upholstery.

Marco smiles at me weakly, covered in dust and plaster, and I nearly slip on the ash from the wraith on the ground as I race over to him. My legs are shaking so bad I'm surprised I even make it to him in one piece.

His irises fade from amber to that warm, honey brown I'm notorious for getting lost in, and I breathe out a sigh.

“You okay?” we both say at the same time. Marco laughs quietly – a mirthful, gentle sound – and I can't stop the way my mouth splits into a grin.

“Wanna skip this place and go to a shitty motel instead?” I venture.

Marco rolls his eyes but stands, sending soot into the air as he does so. Marco scrunches his nose, freckles bunching, and he hangs his head.

“Only if you write the charm on the door,” he retorts.

I sling the duffle bag onto my shoulder and punch him lightly in the arm. “Don't I always?”

Marco nudges me back and we walk out into the night, leaving the safe house behind to the ivy and the wind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt for today was literally my AU. I'm....A LITTLE WORRIED AHA
> 
> Definitely read the prelude if you aren't sure what exactly is going on? This is an additional one-shot for that AU and ANOTHER scene I'm not sure works in the full context of the story that I'm developing.
> 
> I'm not very good at writing fight scenes - I had one of my friends basically coach me on this because I just *clenches fist* can't write them.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! And absolutely hit me up on tumblr or let me know if you have any questions.


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